Tuesday, March 24, 2009

vanisheda hasty vernal exitan empty bowl of sticksremnant feathersan abandoned pillowdistressedruddy breastcrackedshards of bluean end before a beginninga falling before Springa death before birthwhen you left.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Stocked in shady niches,clinging to a fleeting existence.Drifts of a seasondrifts of a reasonthe purging white winter of our lovereplaced by the thatchof the prison of the pastwoven into birth and new lifethereof.

Here we do wait. Here it is over.Here it beginsand endsand begins.

Straddling the razorpierced by the zenithholding what it waswhat it isand what it always will be.What is promised.What is bornwhat is livedand is dead.

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Welcome to "When I Wax"-- a place to escape the pedants and wax poetic, or even wax artistic.

The mythologist Joseph Campbell was asked by an interviewer how a regular person could preserve his sense of the mythic when so many feel too besieged by the claims of every day living. He said, "You must have a place to which you can go, in your heart, in your mind, or your house, almost every day, where you do not know what you owe anyone or what anyone owes you. You must have a place you can go to where you do not know what your work is or who you work for, where you do not know who you are married to or who your children are."

When I Wax is such a place for me. Blogging drafts of poetry and other sundries is like practice fly-casting on the front lawn... it may look silly, but it's effective...

Thank you

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
George Gordon ByronThe Destruction of Sennacherib